Things We Shouldn't Do
by Kaz1167
Summary: There are plenty of moments in which Mako and Korra should have just done something else. Like actually cooking instead of making out in Bolin's kitchen, or going to sleep, instead of thinking about the other person. A series of responses to the Semi-NSFW meme on tumblr.
1. A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

I requested prompts from the Semi-NSFW meme on tumblr and decided to cross-post them on here as well. As such, the prompts technically don't build upon one another, although I'll attempt to put them together in some sort of coherent order. More will be added as I fill the corresponding prompts.

_19. Having a wet dream and calling the other's name during it._

* * *

The gentle rock of the ship would go unnoticed by Mako on any other night, but tonight it's enough to encourage his exhausted body's inevitable collapse, and he sinks into the semi-comfortable bed in his small quarters. He rolls over on his bed, thankful for once that Bolin is staying in a different room instead of bunking with him. This way, he'll have plenty of time to stare at the metal ceiling overhead and dwell on how badly he fucked everything up as they float back to Republic City.

He pulls off his scarf and reaches for the night stand at his head, setting his scarf down and turning off the small light straining to illuminate the room, groaning at the way his body both aches from and enjoys the extension. He settles onto his back, running his hands over his face and through his hair, before clasping his hands together atop the crown of his head, his elbows jutting out at the sides.

He can't remember the last time he was this tired.

He can't remember the last time he was this _miserable._

He rolls onto his side, determined not to think about _them_ tonight, about how his relationship with Korra had become such a mess. It shouldn't be this way, not when he still loves her, not when she still loves him. Instead of lying here alone, she should be _here_. He should be pressing kisses to the back of her neck while she told him about her concerns over opening the portal; she should be in his arms, reliving every detail of their lives that the other had missed in their absence.

He flips over again, pulling his pillow over his head, and everything falls silent. The chiding voices in his head disappear, their nagging and insulting comments gone, the quiet finally allowing him to let his eyes drift to a close, when he hears a knock on his door. When he rolls onto his back and props himself up on his elbows, his room looks different, bigger, brighter even in the dark, full of a hazy blue tint filtering in through the small key-hole window on the steel wall. He feels…lighter, warmer.

The door opens before he responds, his heart lurching from his chest to his throat at the figure that appears before him.

"Korra, what are you doing here?"

She crosses to his place on the bed, shaking her head, bringing her finger to her lips as a hint to stay quiet. She climbs over him, straddling his hips, as she slides her hand gently across his face, fingers brushing against his hair, her thumb pressing lightly against his lips. It's been months since he's seen her like this, her hair down, the loose fitting shirt she'd taken to wearing at night, his stolen pair of boxers that threaten to fall off of her hips. His eyes wander as she places kisses against his cheek, the edge of his jaw, the column of his neck, and he realizes she isn't wearing her bindings when she gently pushes him back onto the bed, the neckline gaping as she leans further into him.

Something about this doesn't make sense. He loves it, but it doesn't make sense.

His hands mechanically meet her hips, because he can't quite place why this seems wrong to him, but at the same time, he can never get enough of her, always needs more of her.

"Korra—" She cuts him off with a kiss, pulling back only when she's satisfied she's kissed him into a silent stupor, eyes searching his own before trailing over his face.

"Don't say anything, Mako. Don't ruin this." She whispers against his skin, the breath of her words simultaneously sending chills down his body and causing his chest to painfully ache like she's just punched him in the gut (_because he ruined…something, right?)_ She rolls her body against his, the slow grind of her against him forces a quiet moan out of him. "We need to be quiet or everyone will hear us, alright? Can you be quiet for me, Mako?"

He nods his head, shaking away the tendrils of whatever is making him feel strangely uncomfortable with this whole encounter, and suddenly it's like he never felt unsettled in the first place, a rush of exhilarating _wanting_ spreading through every inch of him instead.

She sits back as she unbuttons his shirt, working her lower body in slow, circular movements against him. By the time she's done, he's already half-hard under her hips. He frees his arms from his shirt before he slides his hands under the thin material of her own, palms dragging over warm skin, until he reaches her breasts, cupping her, flicking her taught nipples with his thumbs. She pulls the shirt overhead and lets her head tilt back, the cool blue light emphasizing the dip of her collarbone, the shadows falling on her naked torso.

_She's beyond beautiful._

He drinks in the sight of her, her hair trailing over her shoulders, her lips falling open just slightly when he sits up and places his warm mouth over her breast, languidly moving his tongue over her in a way he knows makes her hypersensitive to his touch. She moans, loudly, and he releases her skin, pulling her head down to meet his, kissing her with an intensity he doesn't even fully expect, but _they need to be quiet, they can't get caught, he can't ruin this with words, be quiet_. When they break apart, their chests pressing together as they pant in unison, her hands fumble with the button and zipper on his pants, and he gently eases her hands away to do it himself. He slides the remaining restrictive items of clothing down his legs while she falls back and pulls off her (_his_) red striped boxers.

She settles back over him and he moves to grasp her hips, to guide her onto his almost painfully hard erection, but she shakes her head, takes his hand, and slides it to her core. His gaze never leaves her eyes when he rubs cautiously against her, slicking his fingers with her arousal, before he slips two fingers into her, and she's so warm and so _fucking_ wet around him, and for a split second, he forgets that he needs to be quiet.

"Fuck, Korra…" He moans her name loudly, but she presses her hand against his mouth, heavy lidded eyes peering down at him, shaking her head at him again.

"Quiet, Mako." He nods under her hand, he can't risk waking up Bolin or Asami or whoever might be sharing a wall with him. He can't remember specifically who it is, but he knows that he needs to be quiet. She takes his silent nod as a promise and tugs at his hand once more, indicating that she wants something else filling her, something he's more than happy to give.

She strokes up and down the length of him once, before he pushes up with his hips at the same moment she lowers herself down onto him, and he's trying desperately not to say her name again. He can't risk having her stop, not when he needs this, _needs her_ so damn badly. He watches her intently, the way her shaking, gasping breaths ripple through the rest of her, the way her back arches and her breasts shift with each movement, each slow, hard thrust of his dick into her warmth. It's happening too quickly, despite their languid pace, and he can't help it. He says her name again.

"Korra, shit, _Korra_…"

She doesn't stop this time, just keeps meeting his thrusts with her own movements, and he knows she's so close; he just needs to get her there first so he can follow. She reaches down, glides her fingers against herself, and he's always loved watching her do this, and his thrusts falter out of time he's so fixated on the way she brings herself closer to climax, and her name is spilling from his lips over and over and over again, and her eyes flick open with her orgasm and it's _so damn amazing_ and he's about to—-

"**Mako?** Are you alright?" Her head peeks into his room, only her silhouette visible with the light from the hallway behind her. "I heard you say—"

"Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine, just a, it was just a really intense dream—nightmare—I mean. I had a nightmare." He prays she doesn't notice how much he's sweating or how hard he's breathing or the tent jutting up from his pants that still hasn't disappeared despite the uncomfortable mess in his boxers, but he hates lying to her. "Sorry I woke you up."

"You didn't. I was up. But if you're…feeling really sick or something, you can come get me. Right next door, after all…" She's silent as she hovers outside, like she's unwilling to come any closer, only doing her duty as a friend by checking on him when distressed sounds are coming from the room next to hers. "Night, Mako."

She pulls the door shut before he can reply.

He groans and stands, cleans himself up, and returns to his bed. He stares at his metal ceiling, feeling more exhausted and more miserable than before.

He can still hear her voice, echoing in his head: _We need to be quiet. Can you be quiet for me, Mako?_

Apparently, he can't.


	2. If You Can't Take the Heat

_1. Grinding up against each other._

* * *

The cramped confines of Mako's kitchen leave little space for two people, let alone three. Maneuvering through the narrow space between the counter and each appliance while preparing dinner requires skill, an almost flawless knowledge of each other's movements. Thankfully, this former probending team is adept at just that, and they slide by one another with ease.

That is, until Bolin forgets to turn down the burner under his sauce and, in a moment of panic, careens into Mako, who stumbles into Korra, hands gripping at her arm and the front of her shirt for balance, pulling her body flush against his.

Bolin's white wine sauce is ruined, as is the pretense of he and Korra "giving friendship a shot" despite the lingering tension and the embarrassingly high frequency of post-break up hooks ups.

Bolin eyes the empty bottle of wine, oblivious to the tension that's decided to join them, and shouts something about running to grab a new bottle at the liquor store just down the street from his apartment. The door slams, the bubbling water in the pot the only sound in the room.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No, it's alright." Her clipped response and the unnerving amount of focus she's devoting to chopping peppers belies her words: his hand just barely grazing her chest as he clutches at her shirt is not alright; in fact, his body pressed up against hers in a way it hadn't been in weeks, and honestly shoudn't have been in months, is the _furthest_ thing from alright if they are going to keep acting like 'friends'.

He clears his throat, returns to the noodles he's supposed to be preparing, and tries not to think of the last time they were together, her body warm and wanting under his own (he fails). She worries her lip with her teeth, before an almost determined look settles over her features, and Mako wonders how she can keep so calm when all he wants to do is pin her against the fridge and make her unravel as the result of one too-close moment.

At first, he thinks it's an accident when she brushes past him to grab another pepper from the fridge, but he knows he isn't imagining the tips of her fingers grazing his lower back as she walks back from the pantry or the look she shoots him when he eyes her with a questioning gaze. She's doing it intentionally.

She slides up behind him, reaching for the cabinet of spices to the right of his head, and he can feel her slow intake of breath when her chest presses against his back.

"What are you doing?"

"Just needed to grab something." She leans in closer, her breath gliding against his neck before she replies. She takes something from the cabinet without bothering to look at it, pressing closer to him.

_That's it, screw friendship._

He quickly turns to face her before she can fully pull away from him, clasping her wrist, catching the smirk on her lips before he kisses her, hard. Her hands tug roughly at his hair before he grabs her hips, drawing her flush against him. She slides one leg between his and he feels the edge of the counter press into his back when she rolls her hips slowly against his own.

_Damn, he missed this._

He matches her tempo, sliding his hands from her hips to her ass, squeezing her firmly against him when he pushes his hips back in response. He flips their positions and she releases her hold on him to push herself up onto the counter. Hands on her hips, he pulls her to the edge, her legs sliding around his hips, the counter putting her at just the right height for him to—_fuck, this feels good_—grind against her. Their rhythm resumes its unwavering pace, his hands sliding under the edge of her shirt and pants just to feel more of her skin. They grind together, slowly, hungrily, like they can't get close enough to each other despite the absolute lack of space between them. He doesn't bother trying to hide the way his dick strains against his pants when moves with her, and when she moans at the feel of him hard against her, he deepens their kiss. She tastes like the white wine they were supposed to save for cooking. It's perfect, and he wants more.

Her lips pull away from his, her attention shifting to the belt buckle at his hips, her hands grazing his erection in the process only worsening the ache he feels for her touch, when a foreign sizzling sound suddenly interrupts their chorus of pants and heavy breaths, and oh, he forgot about the noodles he was supposed to keep from over-cooking, and then Bolin's voice and the slam of a door are ripping away the remaining shreds of their stolen moment. Eyes wide, he scrambles to fix the blatantly obvious tent in his pants as she slides from the counter and runs her hands over her shirt, struggling to rid the flush from her cheeks with slow gulps of air.

"I'm back with the wine! How's everything going?" The light expression on his face shifts as he gives the scene a once over—the forgotten pasta, the flushed faces, the _belt buckle hanging open, shit_—and the teasing smirk on Bolin's face makes Mako want to punch something.

"So. I don't think we'll be having pasta tonight then." Bolin sets the wine down on the small kitchen table, casually turning back to the door, with that smug smile plastered on his face. "I can go grab some take out. And, ya know, leave. Be gone, for about twenty minutes or so. How does Narook's sound?"

Mako can feel his face heat up and Korra make some strained laugh-choking sound to his side.

"Sure, Bo, that sounds…fine."

"Mk, bro, I'll see you two in about twenty minutes." He pulls the door open, almost closing it behind him, before he pops his head in once more. "Just make sure you're clothed when I get back!"

Mako coughs, side-eyeing Korra. He'd like to pretend that they both have more self-control than Bolin thinks, that developing a friendship is more important than some overriding need to press her as close to his body as possible, but the second they hear the door click shut, she's pulling him down into a kiss, her hands tangling in his hair, her hips moving against his. For twenty more minutes, he lets himself stop worrying about what they are or aren't, and they slip back into their rhythm.


	3. Just Once

_12. Successfully turning the other on._

* * *

On a too warm summer night, Korra can't sleep.

The cicadas outside her window are too loud, her worn, Air-temple mattress too soft, her just-washed sheets too stiff. She's stressed and tired, and it's been two weeks since their mistake, that damn mistake with _him,_ that her body refuses to let her forget.

Who'd have thought a one time thing would cause so much trouble? That she'd be unable to stop thinking about the way the harsh overhead lighting in the police station's maintenance closet somehow highlighted his every muscle, his every dip and cut, beneath her hands. That she wouldn't be able to shake the sounds of their moaned and clipped curses bouncing off of the cold metal shelves and bottles of stringent cleaning fluids covering the walls. Or the fact that her mind would keep supplying the memory of how he slid into her, each thrust slick and hard and everything she missed, satisfied that yes, he was just as good — no — _they_ were just as good as she remembered, every single time she closed her eyes.

Mood be damned, it was a miracle she didn't decide to just sleep in that broom closet overnight, her entire body spent and still wanting _more_ after their tryst.

She flips onto her back, rubs the back of her hand across her sweat-covered forehead, and tries to ignore the tempting want thrumming through her.

_We broke up_, she reminds herself. _How would you feel if Mako got off while thinking of you, hmm?_

The pulse of heat that rushes down her chest to the building need between her legs answers for her, overwhelms the inklings of guilt tugging at her. She toys with the edge of her underwear, the flick of her warm fingers against her sensitive skin far too nice while she deliberates.

_Just this once_, she decides.

Her hand slides lower.

_Just this one time._

She starts with his lips.

Thoughts of how he draws them into a tight line when he's bristling with almost comical disdain, a pursed frown that accentuates the severe cut of his jaw, the hollows of his cheeks, the sear of his gaze.

How he worries the right corner of his lower lip when he's about to say something half-thought through and full of regret, an accidental apology she'll swallow down like a strong liquor, ignoring the burn, enjoying the sharp aftertaste of his words in her mouth.

She thinks of his hands.

How he grabs and clutches at whatever he can secure in his grasp, the desperation that kept him alive for years like a puppeteer still pulling at his limbs, jerking his every movement at its whim, instructing him to take what he needs, _who_ he needs, and not let go unless he's forced to do just that.

How even his gentlest touches rub coarsely over her skin, his calloused fingertips insisting she remember exactly where he has trailed his hands down the slope of her neck, the swell of her breasts, and up the tender, soft skin on her inner thighs.

She thinks of him, of how he learned to read her, learned to see when she wanted to move slowly, touch softly until one of them unraveled with want, or when she wanted him bearing down on her, handling her with his rough, clutching, grabbing hands, and that mouth, full of its half-empty words and his bitter taste, bruising her own pliant lips.

She thinks of his lips, his hands, his firm arms, his hard chest, each inch of him, until his every detail seeps into her and soothes her ache even as she burns, until she can practically hear his voice spilling from those lips as they cover her skin, until she can almost feel his hand rubbing, pushing, working her to her peak in place of her own.

Release rushes through her tensed body, a choked moan fighting to break the fragile silence hanging over her, and her hand stills. She listens to her heavy breaths as they fill the air, the sound loud and harsh against her own ears.

_Just that once_, she tells herself as she stands and changes into another pair of underwear.

_No more broom closet escapades and fantasizing about your ex, _she says, as she slides under her warm and wrinkled sheets. (She scoffs at how little she believes herself, wondering what he thinks of when he does this, desperate to know what feature of hers he starts with, what he works up to, what memory pushes him over the edge.)

_It was just a one time thing._

_Right._


End file.
